


Chamomile

by breastmiilk



Category: Original Work
Genre: Character Study, M/M, Sick Character, Sickfic, Slow Burn, kinda angsty from MY perspective, was listening to mitski while making this ngl
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-13
Updated: 2020-11-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:42:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27535453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breastmiilk/pseuds/breastmiilk
Summary: “The room is cold you know, kinda like out there.”“Want me to turn up the heat?” I waited for him to say his next request.“No, but…. just stay here, it's warmer this way.” His voice held an uneasiness, like he was afraid of the repercussions that came with his request.
Relationships: Original Male Character/Original Male Character





	Chamomile

It was dusk, or the time between dusk and night where time is slower. The sun had already reached the horizon because winter days always carried themselves shorter than any other season. It always leaves the sky dark and lifeless, always so monochromatic. My pale skin illuminates under the white sun that mimics the moon. It barely goes pink at the joints, or wherever the most blood circulates through my body. When I breathe in, my throat goes dry. The spiky abrasive feeling of cold air touching my lungs, that’s how I really know winter is here. It’s always harder to breathe, the room is colder than you’d like, and everything was grey. 

Laying in the bed next to me on my right, breathing rhythmically was Damien. Compared to my chilling hands, his skin burned hot. His body on fire and sweaty with whatever common cold he fell victim too. He flushed in that sickly red lifeless color that roared at me to take precaution. So I tentatively parted the hair melted on top of his forehead, I always thought he looked better that way. Laying the back of my hand on his skin, we had a good five to ten degree difference in body temperature. Or maybe I was just cold, too cold to decide objectively. 

“Wake up. You have to eat.” That was enough to stir him into a limbo of unconsciousness and consciousness. His eyes were slim to the point where he looked like he was going to sneeze or blink. 

“No, my stomach, it feels horrible.” he closed his eyes briefly and took a couple deep breaths. “And… it's too cold, I don’t wanna... I don’t wanna come out of the blankets.” He was fading back into that sleepy sick state where you have to wake them up every five minutes and they couldn’t for the life of them remember half the conversations they hold with you. 

“At least drink the tea I brought you- hey, don’t fall asleep I’m talking. Drink the tea.” I wiped his forehead with the back of my hand, his sweat collecting on my skin. I pinched his right cheek annoyed. “Sit up, I’m making you drink this tea.” He started to wake and shift. Rolling over on his left, he made enough space for me to rearrange his pillows so he could slump against the headboard at least. He rolled back and pulled the blankets up to his shoulders. 

“I’m not going to hold the cup up to your lips, I’m not feeding you.” He then looked up at me through his lashes, the angle gave his face an innocent and demure look. It was deceiving. 

“Please…” his eyes this time were hazy, they glinted when the orange yellow hue of the light hit his face just right. “I don’t say it a lot… so just this once, please?” his eyes shut again and I knew that the next time they shut he would be out for a while, and then he’d wake up complaining about how the acid in his stomach was eating him from the inside out, and how I was supposed to take better care of him.

“Here,” the heat of the chamomile tea wasn’t burning like usual. It was… nice, nostalgic in a way. It felt like a mother grabbing her child’s hand after they’ve lost their glove from playing in the snow for hours. His lips slowly met the edge of the cup and he drank. He was slow. Like each drop was magma flowing from the earth's core, or it was as if he was trying to savor the gesture. We stayed in this position for a bit, it was me, Damien and the cup of chamomile tea that would go cold.

“Hm” that was his verbal noise for ’I’m done’ I pulled the almost lukewarm cup away from his lips. I started to stand when he began to speak. “I saw birds out that window today, it’s almost January, but I saw two baby birds.” He looked to the singular window on the left of him, staring longingly. “You think, they’re waiting for their mom? They were both babies you know, I wonder where their mama went. Who leaves their child out in the winter snow,” He slowly turned to me, it was a ‘sit down’ signal. He felt awake enough to start a conversation. “If I was a mama bird, I would remember my children. I would mouth feed them and sit on them to keep them warm and all that other bird shit.” 

“How can you be the mama bird if you’re going to get sick like this,” I put my hand on his right cheek checking his temperature, again. “Not only that but you can’t even drink out of a cup in this state.” I shifted my vision to the cup, it’s steam slowly fading. I guess the sickness was making him a little, delusional? Maybe just a little more sentimental than he usually would lead on.  
“If anything, I’m the mama bird right now, and you’re the sick baby in the nest.” I grabbed his medication from the side of his food tray, antibiotics that would help his body recover quicker. “Finish the tea before it goes cold, and take this.” I passed the half empty cup and two pills to him. 

He took them both, with no aid from me. The sleeves of his sweater wrapping to the first joints of his fingers. He put the pills in his mouth and swallowed it down in one gulp with the rest of his tea. After pulling the cup down to rest at the middle of his lap, he redirected his eyes to follow the motion. His jaw started to tremble in the slightest, either from the cold or the anticipation of wanting to say something heavy. I waited to see if he wanted to speak. One minute. Two minutes. Three minutes. I turned, ready to grab the tray and leave, go back to doing something less… consuming. 

“The room is cold you know, kinda like out there.” 

“Want me to turn up the heat?” I waited for him to say his next request. 

“No, but…. just stay here, it's warmer this way.” His voice held an uneasiness, like he was afraid of the repercussions that came with his request. He slowly sank down onto the bed, lying on his back. I pulled my chair closer to his bedside near the edge and got comfortable. “When I was sick… my mom used to comb her hands through my hair,” he closed his eyes. “It helped me sleep.” He finished, turning his head just in the smallest of my direction. 

“Used to?” I reached my right hand out and stroked the front of his bangs back with my fingertips just like earlier. Slowly bringing them to the lower part of his temple, right beneath his earlobe. Then I would take all five of my fingers and brush the side of his scalp with the lightest touch, just drifting through the strands.

“Yeah, she used to.” He leaned into my touch, I took my right hand and brushed the left side of his bangs back, following the same pattern I did just before. I repeated the process over and over. I did it in different spots, I applied different pressures, I did it slower or faster. I made sure it was methodical overall, I made sure he knew I was here. 

“Your hands are so cold… but it’s better than nothing, huh?” His words slowly slurred and lowered in volume. His breathing is getting heavy and relaxed, deep and slow. His heaving paced itself rhythmically, his heartbeat faintly matching. His eyes shut in a soft and peaceful manor, but his eyebrows furrowed. I knew he was going to sleep upset. I continued to comb through his sweaty hair languidly, waiting until I knew he was truly out of it. I didn’t want him to wake up to me leaving, or to an empty room. Leaving him in this coldness after he asked me to stay, felt semi immoral. He was never gentle like this, never submissive enough to let me pet him. He never let his guard down enough to let me care for him. I combed his hair until I knew he was in a deep sleep, where the next time he woke up, I would give him some tea again and have him actually eat something. Until then, I’ll stay here.

**Author's Note:**

> hehehehe this is like my first legitimate fanfic ive ever made. kinda like... embarrassed about it but i had to get these two out of my head. Btw narrator has no confirmed name bc im changing it bc I think the old one is ugly. this also isnt proof read or anything ive just kinda gone back to fix whatever bothered me personally im not really looking for like huge um writing criticism in a grammatical way?? i mean like if theres just like some crit to like making things cohesive and stuff id like that, but anything that has to do with changing my writing "style" or like with proper punctuation etc idc rlly care for all i post is for fun and myself thanks :p ALSO if anyone would like to like.. leave any kind of meta or interpretation of my characters i would LOOOVVVEE that i love hearing that kinda stuff i love lengthy comments


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